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LE

All this chat about salty talk about SDSR, aircraft carriers, and the Falklands has really got my creative juices flowing. I have therefore included a few snippets from my ongoing Clancy-esqu opus, "The Penguin and the Gaucho" to really get us in the mood for constructive strategic debate:

Chapter 1: Crouching Gaucho, Hidden Dragon
In the sultry heat of a Buenos Aires summer afternoon, Admiral Hector Juan-Ramirez Piquantepollo was glad of the cool air-conditioned interior of the Club's lounge bar. He took another taste of his glass of red wine, and scowled at the bitter aftertaste - 1982 - not a good year for wine...or for his beloved navy.
Glancing up at the oil painting of a large, grey Cruiser that hung above the grand piano, he was again reminded of those painful days. He could almost taste the salt on his lips as he sat there, and his only consolation had been that the Bosun had not taken too great an offence to him spitting out that particular gift..."The Belgrano". Those were the days...and if all went to plan, those glory days woul live once more.

His silent revery was disturbed by the opening and closing of the lounge bar's brass handled door, and a short dark-suited figure glided into the room and seated itself on a booster cushion in the easy chair opposite "Aww, hair-wo, Admiwal. So vewy pweased to meet you - would ha been vewy nice to meet before, but you have no idea how fuckin' busy I am!"
Piquantepollo smiled backed, and raised his glass: "Good afternoon Premier Jong-Il, I trust the preparations are well underway - you will see that the other matter is progressing as I have predicted?"
Picking up a copy of this morning's Daily Mail - flown in directly from London - he opened the main article on pages 2 and 3. In bold black lettering ran the story "Why Cameron has Betrayed our Servicemen and crippled this Nation's Defences to Pay for EU Gravy Train", featuring and exclusive interview with Lewis Page.
Behind his horned-rimmed glasses, the Korean Premier's eyes narrowed even further. "Yes. So vewy pwedictable of them. You think you fulfil you part in deal quick enough?"
The old admiral laughed heartily into his glass "Yes...and this time there will be no reprieve - the Empire, I believe, will not strike back!

LE

Well, I don't think I'll be winning any Pulitzers, judging by the response so far. But sod it, a man has to make a living...

Chapter 2 - Into the Fray (Bentos)

Major Tarquin Phillipe Dandyfop took the brandy offered to him by his batman, and turned back to the French doors overlooking the veranda of the officer's mess. Three weeks, and he was bored already.
He still considered the faint possibility that this might be all a big hoax, dreamed up by that dratted Brigadier who had never really forgiven him for filling his Springer Spaniel with No.8 shot one morning on his father's estate in Surrey. Budget cuts were all very well and good, but seriously, who would really think it acceptable that a mounted Squadron of the Household Cavalry could be used to man a roulement company detachment on this God-forsaken rock, simply to allow some Johnny-come-lately Infantry Company to prepare for Afghanistan?

Still, today at last offered some gleam of a silver lining, and he smiled as he watched the last of the horseboxes being pulled to the stables by a team of Troopers, whose gleaming Cuirasses were already spotted with flecks of the peaty soil so beloved of Falkland islanders. Those polo ponies they had ordered from Buenos Aires had been a bargain at twice the price, and to have them delivered so quickly might just make the coming months bearable.

Watching them being unloaded, and walked round the paddock, he couldn't help but notice that their gait seemed somewhat stilted - probably a result of their long journey by sea to Stanley Harbour....

Now seeing that the rest of his Squudron were drawn around the polo field, he motioned to his batman to fetch the rest of the Officers from their slumber for the first practice of the day, and so to raise the morale of his sodden Troopers, whose only other distraction in this dismal place was the occasional spot of 'Benny Rolling' down Mount Kent.

Heading outside to the paddock adjoining the polo field, he quickly identified his own mount, which had been hastily tacked up in the finest sequined black leather, with gold lame stirrup leathers. Putting his foot in the stirrup, he was about to leap into the saddle, when a loud ripping noise from his pony caused him to fall back onto the peaty turf. Before the batman could help him to his feet, he was transfixed by the sight of the pony tearing asunder - only now it was clear that living skin and flesh was in fact in thin layer of chicken wire and papier mache!
As the costume fell to the turf, his eyes grew wider as two swarthy Agentinian commandos climbed from their erstwhile disguise, and levelled assualt rifles at his head. All around, similar disguises were being discarded, and very soon, every one of the Life gaurds found themselves surrounded by grinning Argentinians in camouflaged ponchos and wide-brimed hats.

The first commando looked Tarquin in the eye, and addressed him in good (if stereotypically latin) English:
"Good morning Major, I believe you have something of ours?"
Tarquin stared back defiantly "If its that 2lb bag of marching powder I found in that brothel in Buenos Aires, it's all gone - you ought to be more careful"
The commando laughed back at him; "No Major. I mean Las Malvinas - they are now ours!"